Cage a Free Bird
by AlexJohanson
Summary: Arthur has disappeared - again. Alfred, as the token best friend, has to go retrieve him yet another time. But this time, the Englishman hasn't left a trail of bread crumbs to follow. Even with the encouragement of everybody to forget the Brit - because why bother looking for someone who doesn't want to be found? - Alfred sets off to find Arthur, one more time. [[UsUk, enjoy!]]
1. Invisible

**Author's Note:** Hey, everyone! Firstly, thank you for clicking on this story to read, it means a lot! Secondly, I'm not very patient when it comes to rereading my chapters over and over again, so comment on any major problems/typos/etc if you feel they need to be fixed, and I can go back through. So far for this story, I'm planning only 3 chapters. I've tried to do longer stories before on older accounts, and I _always_ run out of ideas/steam/motivation before I finish; and I hate not finishing my stories! So I present to you, a short story worth your while! :) Thanks for reading!

* * *

Chapter 1

 _Invisible_

"He doesn't want to be found, Jones. Leave 'em be."

Alfred F. Jones, seventeen years old, sat in the passengers side of an old Mustang. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a nasty habit learned from an old friend of his. Namely, Arthur Kirkland; otherwise known as the boy who'd disappeared, _again_. He exhaled the cloud of toxins, further fogging up the windows. Hair dangled down in front of his eyes as he rested his head against the window. "Bullshit. He always wants to be found." He did, right? Alfred tapped his foot against the worn out interior of the car, flicking ash into the neatly balanced tray on the dashboard. Arthur ran away all the time. Made a whole big deal of it too. Screeching tires in the dead of the night, or an unnecessary fight with one of his older brothers. Every time, he left with a large "I'M FUCKING PISSED OFF" sign hanging right over his head. It was, as a best friend, Alfred's job to go retrieve him. He just didn't understand why the Brit had made it so damn hard this time. No screaming, no passive aggressive cold-shoulders, no sappy 'I'm leaving for real' text at 2 AM. Alfred woke up one morning after their routine fucking ('no relationships', Arthur had protested); and he was been gone. No note, and no after-sex routine cleaning of the condoms off the floor. Arthur hadn't even attempted to tidy up Alfred's room. Now _that_ was out of character.

"Does 'e, now? Or do you just keep draggin' 'em back? Maybe this time 'e figured it was smart to take off without the bitch fit." The twenty-four year old in the drivers side contributed to the smoke already accumulating in the car. "Plus, Alfred, 'e _is_ eighteen now. It ain't runnin' away if the runnin' is done by a legal adult. No matter 'ow much of a baby 'e really is."

Alfred shot a nasty glare, and followed it with a large cloud of smoke headed towards the other's head. "You're his brother, ya gotta know where your bro would go. He didn't leave the usual coordinates hidden in the bottom of the Frosted Flakes again?"

" _Or_ the message written in toothpaste, _or_ the city written in 'is current favorite book. I'm tellin' ya Jones, 'e's _gone_." Alastair exhaled smoke in the general direction of Alfred in return. "Isn't this better for the both of ya? Now ya can fuck all those pretty girls without Artie throwing a fit. Or buy the condoms that taste like cherry, ya know 'e hated those bastards." Alfred buried the stub of the cigarette in the ash heap, sighed, and shrugged. "Did that never bother 'ou? 'E didn't want 'ou to fuck anybody, but 'e could stick his dick in _anything_ 'e wanted to? Self-entitled little brat."

"I don't mind." Alfred replied absentmindedly. Which was only half true. He didn't mind not fucking other people, he _did_ mind seeing Arthur's underwear on floors other than his own. "And I fuck _plenty_ of people. _Plenty._ "

"Sure ya do, sonny." Alastair put out his own cigarette, and started up the car. "Well, good luck findin' the little bastard, let me know when 'e comes back home." Alfred reached for the handle, and let the avalanche of smoke pour from the open door as he stepped out. The second the door was closed Alastair had sped off, to talk to better people than his younger brother's not-boyfriend-boyfriend. Being with Arthur was weird, because the Englishman never let anyone be near him, yet simultaneously was one of the neediest people Alfred had ever met. Not that he minded. If anything, seeing Arthur sitting out on the porch of his house every day, waiting for the American, was somewhat endearing. Half of him hoped to turn around from the disappearing car to see the Brit there, with his head against the railing and with his earphones blaring music so loud, nobody knew why he bothered with the notion of earphones in the first place. But Alfred's porch was empty, and the world surrounding him lacked the loud buzz of angry metal music.

It was 5AM when he entered his home. Almost twenty-four hours since he'd rolled over to find the small bundle of warmth that should have been in his bed was not there. Alfred had demanded Alastair drive him to the three nearest states, in order to look for the Brit. But he was not in his favorite diner one state up, or his favorite record shop one state to the left. And after three hours of walking around some big-ass park Arthur had named once, he concluded he was not there either.

The American's room was just as he'd left it. Ripped condom packets barely hidden by the blankets he'd thrown down over them, day-old skinny jeans and a white v-neck crumpled up into a ball in the corner. The pack of cigarettes he'd left on his counter had gone missing since he'd left a day earlier, though, and he assumed it was his mothers doing. She never confronted him on the matter, but any time the lung-killers were left unattended, she'd throw them out. Occasionally he felt bad about being _that kid_ in the family. But then he remembered Arthur shotgunning with him at a party in their Freshman year, and all the times following that. Guilt faded, pleasureful memories did not.

Alfred began the tedious process of picking up all the used condoms, and their counterpart wrappers. Honestly, he and Arthur had to get a better system, the whole 'throw it wherever - we'll get it later!' idea was not working out well for him. He dropped them all into the trash, and plopped down onto his bed. His eyes scanned the room yet another time, in hopes of spotting something Arthur had left for him. Some kind of note, some message, something. He'd already tried calling the Brit, only to find his phone had been turned off. Alfred threw his own phone down on the bed in frustration, after scrolling through all of their recent messages, hoping to uncover buried anger he'd not detected earlier. Anger was a good thing, coming from Arthur. His anger was wild, but quick, and over with soon. This new silence was a whole lot scarier.

The American picked up his phone again, returning to the messages from Arthur.

' _Arthur? Call me.'_ He texted, and waited. He waited for five, ten, twenty minutes, and sent another. _'I'm tired of this bullshit man, this is too draining.'_ Thirty more minutes. _'If you don't respond_ now _I'm going to go light your guitar on fire.'_ Ten more minutes. _'And your records.'_ Alfred heard his mothers 8:00 work alarm go off. _'Stop being an ass and come home already. I miss you :( '_

* * *

Another three days passed without a word from the elusive Englishman. In that time, Alfred had hitched rides to the next two states he'd thought he had found clues for, only to realize they were random cities that somehow worked their ways into Arthur's thoughts for a brief moment. At the end of the third day, he was searching around places that didn't even make sense. Was it possible Arthur was sulking around ring shops, thinking about their future? Or spending days patrolling around apartments, planning for something they'd never discussed before. The Englishman had never, once expressed any hint of wanting to spend time past high school with the American. But the blue-eyed teen was out of ideas, and Arthur had had crazier ideas.

Alfred tugged his flannel closer around his frame as he hurried down the busied backstreets of downtown Washington. Damn these cold weathers getting the best of him. Being born in Florida had done nothing to prepare him for the brutal chill that came hand-in-hand with winter. Arthur, on the other hand, had moved to the United States right before his freshman year of high school, after his mother had passed away in a car crash over in the UK. He, along with two older brothers and one younger sister, came to stay with their father in America. As far as fathers went, Arthur had gotten the short end of the deal. An alcoholic at best, most would call him a full-blown dead man walking. If he wasn't drunk he had some kind of drug in his system, and not the fun kind that 'everybody tries in college'.

Alfred and Arthur had always been the blond duo of the school. Both strikingly handsome, each with an accent that was foreign to Washington; it was not hard for them to settle into groups and find their friends. People were constantly in envy of one of the two, considering the fact _nobody_ would ever get as close to either of them as they were. Alfred looked out after Arthur, and vice versa. They'd made a pact in the fourth week of school. Both new to the area, both confused, and both attracted to one another - it was inevitable.

Francis Bonnefoy had been the 'third wheel' in their group, so to speak. Coming from Champagne, France a year after Alfred and Arthur had started high school, he had wasted no time in making close friends of the two... Having raced in to escape the cold, the American sat in the back of the one bar in the city limits that didn't card. The Frenchman, much like his usual self, seemed to appear from the shadows of the bar and take a seat next to him. Ignoring the odd timing of the two meeting, Alfred immediately launched into a story, catching the taller, learner male up on what had happened.

"But dontcha think it's weird, Franny? He just _left_. He never just _leaves_ , not without letting somebody know about it." Alfred sipped on the dark liquid that had been placed in front of him. Going to a place that didn't card meant getting whatever the hell the bartender felt like giving out. Beggars can't be choosers. Francis, on the other hand, sipped on water. After (quote on quote) "living in such an esteemed life in France, with the best of alcohols", he had found it hard to lower himself down to a-dollar-a-bottle American drinks. Or so he said; Alfred thought it was just because the other had a shitty tolerance and didn't want anyone to see him plastered. That was Arthur's thing; getting wasted and making loud, drunk mistakes. For anyone else to strip to _Uptown Funk_ would be nothing more than a cheap copycat of how wonderful the Brit was after a drink too many.

"He _is_ Arthur, he does things like that. You know he'll be back. He always is." Francis had been the one to lose the most of his accent when moving to America. Lost, or buried intentionally, his French came through only at the ends of his sentences and when he got angry.

"I just…" Alfred ground the palms of his hands into his eyes, shoving his glasses up on his head to do so. The bags under his eyes were evident. "This doesn't feel right. By now I should be on some bat-shit insane riddle that he laid out for me to follow. Or _something_."

"What if he doesn't _want_ to be found? Alastair suggested that, non? Arthur could have gotten fed up with his father, and left. Space was always his big need." Francis suggested.

"He wasn't with his dad the night he left, he was with _me_." Alfred said, in such a tone and with the appropriate eyebrow waggle. He still enjoyed rubbing it into the Frenchman's face, on occasion. Hell, he liked rubbing it in anyone's face. Arthur was hot, and Alfred got to bone him on the regular. The Frenchman chuckled.

"I've no idea then, Alfred. It's not like he confided in _moi_ , you were always his go-to boy." Francis hummed, sipping at water as if it was wine. He paused, eyes trained on the twisted knots in the table as if they were actually interesting. As if they both hadn't sat in that exact booth thousands of times before, giddy with adrenaline, and the sense of doing something completely illegal. "Did he ever let you take him out? On that date, I mean…?"

Alfred shook his head. "We all know he hated that shit. I tried not to bring it up to him."

"Alfred, at some point, you _have_ to stop putting his feelings ahead of yours. You've been asking him for _four years_ to go out and do something _other_ than fuck him. It is _not_ that big of a request."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll ask him out again as soon as he returns my calls." Alfred spat back, somewhat angrily. Everyone was acting like Arthur wasn't even _gone_! Like he'd walk in through the shitty old doors of the bar any minute and pronounce he wanted to get drunk enough to forget his first name! Alfred eyed the door curiously, in bleak hopes of seeing the Englishman. Francis exhaled loudly.

"Sorry… Alfred, I'm saying this as a friend now, oui? You are _obsessing_ over him, and he's obviously not putting a seconds thought into you. He _knows_ this stresses you out. And he still does it, for the attention, non?" Francis ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair. "All I'm saying, is that exerting every ounce of _your_ abilities won't make him return the favor. It just makes you tired, and him still missing. Let him sulk in whichever cheap motel he's in now. When he realizes not everybody has stopped _their_ lives for _his_ , he'll be back."

"I need a cigarette." Alfred shot a glare, his hand on the back of his chair in mere seconds to help hoist himself up to his feet. The Frenchman looked only mildly concerned, watching the back of his friend as he disappeared through the doors. Once outside, Alfred immediately sought out for the area behind the bar where the cold wind couldn't reach. With a cigarette clamped between his lips, he lit it with one free hand, immediately inhaling deeply. He pulled the fag away from his mouth, exhaling, and looking down at it. Even the damn cancer-sticks made him think about Arthur. It had been the Brit, bright-eyed and bushy tailed at 15 years old, who offered one out to the American.

 _"They taste like shit and rot your insides, but I'm bloody hooked on them."_ He remembered Arthur saying, as they hid beneath the porch of the Brit's house. They'd been somewhat squished together, with old paint cans and broken lawn mowers surrounding them. _"Eww, then why are you trying to get me hooked on em too, bro?"_ Alfred had taken it, nonetheless. He still remembered the wicked grin that had appeared on the Brit's face, and the words that followed. _"Because I like you, Alfred F. Jones. And I think you'd look bloody beautiful with smoke pouring from those pretty lips of yours."_ He'd smoked every day since then.

 _"Goddamnit, maybe I am obsessed with him…_ "

* * *

Two weeks. Alfred waited in the stagnant silence for two weeks without as much as a breath of air from Arthur. After returning to the bar and offering Francis an apology, Alfred had downed the rest of his beer(?), then two more, got shit faced, and fucked the first girl in his contacts that was available. He didn't need Arthur! Half of the people in his school practically stood in line to get in the American's pants, and he opened the gates and let them, one by one. (On some occasions, two or three at a time.) And for those two weeks, he somewhat managed to forget the Englishman. Sure, taking a drag made him think about Arthur, and messing around on the fret board of his Statocaster hit some memories. But screwing the cutest cheerleader in their school certainly only made new ones. Somehow, he thought Arthur would catch wind of all of Alfred's hookups and come racing back to scold him. But wherever the Brit was, it was clear he was staying.

"So you'll call me~?" Alfred lay on his back in bed with the sheets barely covering anything, as he eyed the brunette who was slipping her skirt back up over her thighs. She looked over her shoulder after the silence, and raised an eyebrow in question. Alfred nodded, in a haze, as she slipped her shirt back on.

"You know it. See ya when school starts back up again." Oh, school. Their winter break was soon going to be over, and he'd have to return to school, and answer the same question over and over again. _'Where's Arthur?' 'I don't know, I don't know, why's it my fucking problem?'_

The American lay in bed as he heard the girl leaving, the front door having to be jammed shut, as usual. He lay there until somebody cranked up the AC and he had to get up to turn it off. Who the fuck turned the AC on in _December?_ Just open a damn window! The American exhaled loudly as he returned to bed, fiddling with the draw strings of the sweat pants he'd thrown on, in order to avoid another _'Alfred, go put on pants!'_ screech from a family member. After scrolling through the copious amount of Snapchat notifications and updates on Facebook, he found himself dialing Alistair's number. He half expected the male to send him straight to voice mail.

"'Ou lasted longer than we thought." Was the first thing out of the Scott's mouth. "James and I made a bet on 'ow long you would last before 'ou suggested we look for Artie." Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled in exasperation. He refrained from speaking. "Well," the redhead continued on, " 'ou are right, this is longer than usual for 'im. Any ideas on where 'e may be?"

"Yeah, actually." Alfred sat upright in bed, running his hand down over his stomach absentmindedly. He leaned against a mountain of pillows. "I think he might be in New York." Silence on the other end of the line.

"Are ye mad, Jones? Dontcha remember all of those looooong rants about 'ow 'e _loathed_ New York? Hell, Washington is too big for him!" This much was true, Arthur had come from a small city in the UK that nobody had ever heard of, or learned to pronounce. He always said once he was on his own, he'd go get an apartment in the center of the three-restaurant town back home, and lived there until he died.

"See, that's what I thought at first. But if he really _doesn't_ want to be found, wouldn't he go where we never would have guessed?"

"…That's one helluva long stretch, Jonesies. Are ye sure 'ou aren't over thinking this?"

"No! I don't know… Maybe?" Alfred hopped up and slowly wandered around his room, kicking up astray pillows and shirts. "I don't know what else to do, though."

"Well, New York is bloody huge. 'Ou can't just show up and hope to find 'em in the nearest motel. Any leads, Sherlock?" Alastair's tone altered temporarily to a much more posh one, and Alfred muttered 'fuck you' under his breath in response.

"I'll figure it out once I get there. I'm gonna go spend the last few days of our break in Manhattan. He'll be sulking around there somewhere, if I'm right."

"And 'ou do realize if ya fuck up, and 'e isn't there, ou've wasted the rest of the break looking in the wrong place. This is a stretch, even for 'ou. Maybe Artie isn't gone at all. Maybe 'e is in some local motel."

"I've called around to all the local ones, asked if there was a 'brooding Englishman' camping out in one of their rooms. He isn't here." Alfred felt more certain than he previously had, and repeated the last sentence with more confidence. Because it all made sense, in his head. Arthur was gone, without a word. He was in New York, waiting patiently for Alfred to walk in. It was the Brit's twisted version of figuring out if people still cared for him, and the American felt he'd already wasted enough time trying not to care. Two weeks? Arthur probably thought he wasn't coming at all! "Actually, I'm gonna go ahead and get on the road. It's a long drive up there."

"Four 'ours of a drive. Good luck on gas money." Alastair's voice dripped with sarcasm once more. He paused, as did Alfred, and the only sound coming through was the thin static of the phone line. "… Let me know when 'e's back safe, with you."

"Will do, Alastair." Alfred hung up first, and started to throw clothes that didn't smell as badly as the rest into a backpack. His parents, although kind and caring, were busy with work. They'd given up on mentoring their oldest son the second they found him and his British friend in bed together. It was apparent to them that he was going to do what he pleased.

Alfred was not a fan of his own car. It didn't run well, liked to stop and break down when paused at red lights, and guzzled gas with only 14 miles to the gallon. Which was why he commonly hitchhiked off of Alastair, who only did it because he loved going 120 miles an hour on the interstate when no cars were around. But the Scott had a work schedule, and he was done with asking for long car rides with the man, who truly enjoyed playing Russian Roulette with pot holes and harsh turns.

The American left a note on the counter, something similar to ' _got to go retrieve Arthur, be back in 3 days.'_ He threw his bag in the passengers seat, and spent ten minutes turning the key and whispering "come on, come on dammit!" as the motor groaned in protest. Eventually, the old engine coughed to life, and he was off, the quiet voice on his phone muttering directions persistently. While at a stoplight, he tried to text Arthur one more time, somewhat certain the other was checking the messages and then turning his phone right back off.

 _'On my way to New York. Any chance you'll tell me where you are to speed things up?'_ He bit his lip, watching as the message sent. Above it were roughly three dozen other things he'd sent over the weeks. Offhanded comments on the weather, or how the Brit's guitar was all out of tune and would be a _bitch_ to fix if he waited much longer. All without a response.

* * *

Two hours into the drive, Alfred's phone buzzed. It was from a certain Englishman, and it read:

 _'Don't bother coming.'_


	2. Opaque

**Author's Note:** Yay, chapter 2! Only one to go! Firstly, if you want there to be some smut in chapter 3, you need to leave a comment because I'm on the fence about whether or not to add it in. Thanks in advance for reading, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on it! :)

* * *

Chapter 2

 _Opaque_

One would think that a clear 'fuck off' message would deter a person from continuing. For Alfred, getting a response from Arthur after weeks of utter silence fueled him on. After seeing the message, he pressed his foot down on the shitty gas pedal and listened to his car moan and groan as it begrudgingly took off down the highway. Arthur was in New York. Why else would he have responded? He saw Alfred catching on, and as some form of twisted reward, he'd offered out a hint. _'I'm here! You got me!'_ was what he'd picked out from the otherwise angry _'don't bother coming'._ Arthur always did that, because in his head, his life was some soap opera, and he felt the need to bring forth some kind of season finale as a segment of their lives ended. Alfred was no longer giddy with the idea of discovering the other, waiting for him in the middle of Times Square with a smirk that only Arthur could manage. He was mulling over what to say, and the further he traveled, the less kind it sounded in his head.

"I'm done with this shit, Arthur. Leave again and you can stay gone…" He grumbled under his breath, then shook his head, and tried again. "This is too time consuming… No. Too tiring?" He signed heavily, and reached down with one hand to turn on the radio. What was this to him? A game? One that had been fun the first time, maybe. After that, it became the routine journey that absorbed his time and his energy. "This is it. The last time I'm wasting my time chasing after you." Alfred rolled his eyes to the back of his head, so nobody else would have to do it when they heard _that_ shitty line. He didn't want to give Arthur the pleasure of making it a season-finale kind of day. He wanted to tell Arthur that this wasn't cute anymore, this wasn't fun for him. And he was done with worrying. After all, they weren't _dating_. Arthur never let them.

The drive up to New York was mind-numbing. He stayed on the same one or two interstates the whole way up, with his hands dropped to the bottom of the wheel so he wouldn't have to exert the extra energy to keep them on the 10 and 2. His shaggy blond hair dangled down in front of the rims of his glasses, and his bright blue eyes were dulled as they focused on the road. After Arthur's little message, the phone went dead silent once more, and he left it like that. He didn't respond, or threaten, or press further. He sat in silence, other than the soft mumble of the half-broken radio that occasionally popped online, long enough to catch half a song before it went under again.

Driving into New York was one hell of an hour, for the American. Sure, Washington DC had some crowded roads, but they were also wide and vast, stretching on forever without too many twists and turns. New York's, on the other hand, resembled scribbles from a small child who'd gotten ahold of a sharpie and a spare wall. Whoever designed the road systems, Alfred thought, deserved to burn in hell. By the time he got within the city limits, he'd made the decision to be done for the day. After all, it was already nearing nine o'clock, and with the sun setting, he knew there was _no_ way he'd be able to navigate the humongous city. So, he checked into the first shitty motel that popped up on the side of the road. The parking lot was hardly paved, there were so many potholes and missing pieces of concrete that Alfred ended up giving up on parking, and pulled off into some spare patch of grass near an abandoned, half-empty pool.

Getting the man behind the counter to take his money was harder than expected. Since he wasn't yet 18 (curse his late birthday!), he wasn't technically allowed to pay for a motel room. After a little bargaining (and a 20 in the man's front pocket), he was handed keys.

Some number of hours later, Alfred stood in front of the foggy mirror in the cramped bathroom of the motel. The steam from the shower made his cheeks flush, and he hazily wrapped a towel around his hips. He looked up to his reflection, and frowned lightly. _'What else do you want, Arthur? What don't I have?'_ He thought, frowning lightly. He'd never figured out what Arthur disliked, what stopped the Brit from ever calling him his boyfriend. They were practically attached at the hip, in school and out of it. Arthur talked of old boyfriends and people he'd love to date, but whenever Alfred would passively mention going out to the movies, or to go get pizza, Arthur would do his little half-laugh-half-snort and always, _always_ say "yeah, right", like it was some crazy concept to him! The American puffed his chest up at the thought, and shouldered open the door to his room.

The blue-eyed beauty spent the rest of the night with a map sprawled out in front of him on the old, creaky bed. Little golden stars were placed all over, to show record shops, guitar shops, the worlds biggest _American Spirit_ (Arthur's favorite cigarettes) factory that was located in central New York. They marked any place that the Englishman could have possibly thought to go. The only trick was, going at the right time. Alfred spent most of his night planning on when to hit each shop. Would Arthur stick to his usual Saturday-evening routine of longingly looking at over-priced _Fender_ guitars? And his bi-weekly Friday afternoon record-store stops? Would he buy his cigarettes every Monday morning, right before the bell for school rang? Alfred had to assume so.

The American fell asleep just two hours before the sun planned on rising, with golden stars accidentally plastered on his forehead, and with the map draped over him like a blanket. Tomorrow, tomorrow he'd go find his best friend.

* * *

After what seemed like a nonexistent night of sleep, Alfred was awake and downing coffee as he headed to the third record shop of the day. As it turned out, New York was filled with them, and he had _no_ idea where in the world Arthur may be. The first two shops were too big, too pristine and filled with current top-charter songs. He'd walked in, turned around, and walked straight back out. Arthur _loathed_ new music on records. He used to complain for hours upon hours about how old music should stay on old records, and the shitty 'not real music' that was being produced currently should stay on iPods. He loved little hole-in-the-walls. Not chain-stores that had a carbon copy of it in each city over.

The next record shop, and two other CD stores were no more fruitful. He hoped and prayed that he'd walk in, and see a certain Englishman browsing over the old rock albums in the back. And he'd get to walk up, and give his over-practiced speech, and they'd both drive home whilst singing loudly along to whichever song came on the radio.

But that didn't happen, and his Saturday-evening guitar shop scout was no more successful. With one more shop to go that day, he shuffled down the busied streets, glancing at his watch every few seconds. It was 7:56 and the shop closed at 8:00, and he had to hope and pray that Arthur was there. This was, after all, one of the last places he could look. Upon entering the store, his heart dropped. It was small, with a single room. Guitars hung on each wall, but there was no way anybody would be hiding behind one. And there was no Arthur.

Grinding his teeth, he resisted the urge to kick something, or scream, or call the Englishman and leave a very nasty voice mail about how uncool it was to leave down, go _all_ of the way up to New York, then make himself unfindable. This whole damn thing was hard enough as it was! There were no clues, no gas stations that had little notes underneath the Brit's favorite candy (Mars Bars). And believe him, he had checked.

Feeling utterly defeated, the American slowly circled around the store, eyeing each guitar with some level of distaste. Stupid Arthur, with his stupid need for constant attention, and his love for long, elaborate puzzles. Hell, this wasn't even a puzzle! This was a string of somewhat accurate guessing, and too damn much of the American's time. He didn't know if he was more frustrated over the long, fruitless journey up to New York, or the fact that even if he were to find Arthur; the Brit would never thank him, or go out on a fucking date with him. Everything would return to normal once more, nights filled with screwing around and days left empty.

"Do you need any help, sir?" The American, lost in his frustrated internal rant, was surprised to realize he'd completely overlooked the worker behind the counter. He looked to be in his late teens or earlier twenties, with lighter blond hair combed back and an _Aerosmith_ t-shirt. Arthur probably would have fucked him, then told Alfred not to. The American almost said no. Well, he almost muttered 'fuck off', but caught himself moments before the first vowel could pass his lips.

"Yeah, actually… You haven't had anyone British pass through here recently, have you? Blond, short, green eyes, always angry about something..?"

"Are ya stalking someone down? I'm afraid I'm not inclined to help a manhunt." The man behind the counter joked, nonchalantly sliding a small ash tray behind the register with his elbow. Alfred laughed.

"Not quite a manhunt… Just a friend of mine." Alfred walked over to the counter, eyeing the other hopefully. Ludwig, as his name tag stated, shook his head slowly.

"Sorry, can't help you there. We get a lot of stuck up Americans, but that's about it." He replied coyly, raising an eyebrow. "Anything else I can help you with…?" The German paused, looked Alfred up and down, then added on, "not necessarily about guitars..?"

Had his not-boyfriend-boyfriend been here, Alfred would have shot down anybody giving him bedroom eyes. Why? To make the Brit happy, of course. His whole four-year high school experience had been aimed at making Arthur happy. Whether it was passing him answers on a Pre-Calculus test, or saying no to a date with a person he was interested in, he had only ever made Arthur happy. But hell, now Arthur wasn't there. And a very attractive German man with pretty light blue eyes and _very_ nice biceps was eyeing him up and down.

"Actually, yeah…" Alfred leaned on the counter, giving a childish lopsided smile. "Ya see, I'm kinda lost, and have no idea where my place is… Wanna help me find it?"

"Only if I can stay for a drink."

"All I've got is motel coffee."

"Perfect."

* * *

So yes, Alfred slept with the pretty German boy. Ludwig knew how to navigate New York much better than the American, and had them stepping into his room in less than ten minutes. And clothes off mere seconds later. And he didn't even feel bad about it in the morning, when they shared the five minutes of hot water that would be produced from the shower. The little motel room seemed less dim with another person in it. Even with the German, who turned out to be a man of few words the later the night got. Which was the polar opposite of Arthur, who before, during, and after sex, would constantly rattle on about his day, the weather, and the refinished _Nirvana_ album.

The American sat on the edge of the bed, still shirtless as he tied the laces of his converse. He could hear the other man quietly moving across the room, picking up spare articles of clothing and folding them, placing them neatly back onto the bed.

"Do you need to be anywhere anytime today?" Ludwig questioned, now fixated on the shitty coffee machine in the corner. Alfred sat upright, grabbing his bag and finding the one shirt he hadn't worn yet; a faded red Coca Cola v-neck. The American thought on the question, sighing quietly. If he had _any_ idea where Arthur was, he would have said yes. But without leads, it was impossible to dive into New York and hope for the best.

"Nah, you?"

"Not until three… Mein older brother is flying in, I have to meet him at the airport. Useless kid can't hail himself a cab."

The airport.

Alfred stood up straight, heading right over to his half-dead phone, which lay abandoned on the floor after falling out of his pants the night before. This, by far, was the biggest stretch in finding the Brit that he'd ever thought of. But Arthur's old home in England only had one flight going in and out a month. On a Sunday, every time.

"….Alfred?" Ludwig walked over slowly, bare feet making the boards covered with a holy carpet creak. The American tensed, snapped out of his thoughts as he watched page after page load. "Something the matter?"

"I, uh… Ever heard of Winchcombe? It's in Gloucestershire." Alfred said, mainly to sound it out so he could type it in.

"Er, no… Never."

"The friend I'm looking for. He used to live there." Alfred's face lit up. There _was_ a flight, at 12:00PM. He looked at the clock. 11:05AM. The American bolted up, and began to throw all of his belongings into his bag. "I'm sorry, really sorry. I think my friend is about to get on a plane headed that way." He walked past Ludwig, and gave the briefest of kisses to his cheek on his way to the door. Ludwig barely seemed phased. Quite the opposite. He smiled lightly, and nodded.

"Twenty-five minute drive to the airport." The German mused.

"Fifteen with the way I drive." Alfred replied under his breath. Ludwig laughed.

"Nice to meet you, Alfred F. Jones. I hope you can catch the boy you love."

Alfred would have protested to what the other said, if he had not already been out the door and in his car. His cheeks were flushed a dark red color as the engine sputtered to sped down the highway with the speed of lightning. He had to go drag the boy he _loved_ home, one more time.


	3. Palpable

**Author's Note:** Final chapter! I hope you've enjoyed reading this, I sure as hell have enjoyed writing it! Let me know your comments, questions, concerns, and loves! Also, warning, some smut near the end! Not as descriptive as I thought it'd be, but it's there! Enjoy :)

* _Palpable_ definition: able to be touched or felt; clear to the mind or plain to see.

* * *

Chapter 3

 _Palpable_

 _"He doesn't want to be found, Jones. Leave 'em be."_ Alfred shoved through the ocean of people in the airport, nerves too fried to look down to his watch to see if he'd missed the flight. He stepped on a considerable number of toes, and only muttered apologies under his breath. Gate A, gate B, gate C… He passed each one, cursing under his breath. Of course, Arthur would take his final opportunity before graduation to take off. _"What if he doesn't_ want _to be found?"_ Okay, so maybe he didn't. Maybe Arthur honest-to-god wanted to disappear, back to England. Maybe he wanted to leave four years of his life behind, in America. Without a thought or care to anyone else's feelings. That wasn't going to happen. Alfred was done with putting the Englishman's concerns ahead of his own.

Gate E, possibly the largest in the entire airport. Thousands of people swarmed like bees around a hive. Only they were a hell of a lot more annoying, because their big-ass suit cases cut Alfred off every time he attempted to take a turn. It was 11:55, the plane would no doubt be boarding any second. Then taking off, and shipping Arthur back to England. The mere idea of never seeing the Englishman again made Alfred queasy. He elbowed through the crowd of people, looking for the head of straw blond hair that always stuck out in crowds. What if he was wrong? What if Arthur wasn't here at all? This could be some big coincidence. For all he knew, the Brit was on some beach in Florida.

But no, he was not in Florida. He was right there. Alfred saw him, off in the corner of the vast room. Sitting against the wall, phone in his hand as it charged in a nearby outlet. The American stood frozen in his tracks, half a room away, eyeing the other as if it were a trap. There he was, waiting conveniently for him, at the gate of the New York air port after nearly three weeks of being missing. Alfred was fairly certain, at that point, Arthur had truly intended on leaving and never coming back. This wasn't a big jig-saw puzzle to him. This was him saying 'fuck off America' for his last time. Alfred gritted his teeth as he pushed through the crowd.

"Arthur!" Alfred's voice fought over the sound of the intercom, telling passengers with a membership or first-class seat were allowed to board. The herd of people stampeded towards the gates of the plane. He stopped offering out apologizes, and instead elbowed through the crowd until he reached the wall. Arthur's head snapped up from his phone. For a second, Alfred could have sworn the Brit looked genuinely shocked to see him there.

"The hell're you doing here?" Were the first choice words out of the Englishman's mouth. He rose up to his feet, unplugged his phone, and shoved the cord into a small backpack that couldn't have held more than three changes of clothes. Of course, Alfred thought, Arthur looked as collected as always. It was always Alfred who burst through doors, or was red in the face in excitement. Nothing was ever good enough for Arthur to be bothered about. And apparently, neither was seeing his friend of four years standing there, four states away from home. Alfred wanted to slap him.

"The _fuck_ do you mean what am I doing here?" The blue-eyed teen shouted back immediately. A few people turned their heads in distaste to the yelling.

"Bloody hell, Alfred. What a scene you're causing." Arthur muttered under his breath, eyeing the people who dared to turn their heads. His hand messed with the collar of some washed out band t-shirt that was too hard to read. "And I mean, what're you doing here? Are you going to Gloucestershire as well? Do you have friends or family there I never knew about?"

"One friend," Alfred seethed, "one ass of a friend. And what, I _wasn't_ supposed to come and collect you this time? Gee, Art, you should have left a note."

"I thought that would only fuel you on," Arthur replied, coolly. "No need to throw wood onto a fire, I always say."

"No need to fucking run off every year, I always say." Alfred mocked in a posh accent, sticking out his tongue. His voice lowered considerably after spotting a security guard eyeing them. Arthur snickered, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he covered his hand with his mouth. Even when absolutely furious, there was no denying Arthur was as attractive as ever. Despite the glaring sun of their city most of the year, his skin was as pale as when he'd come over from the UK. His eyes were still as green as emeralds, and his smile as stunning as the setting sun. Alfred _loathed_ how much he cared for Arthur.

"Touché," Arthur let his hand fall back down to his side, glancing to the gate to the plane out of the corner of his eye. He looked back up to Alfred, using the same, beautiful stare-down he'd used for four years. "However, it is time for me to return home. Ever since I've gotten to this god-forsaken country I've been eager to get back. There isn't one good thing about this place. Not the shitty fast food, or overweight people, or homophobic assholes." Arthur said, attempting to take a step to the side of Alfred, trying to get around him. The American took the same step, blocking the shorter Englishman with his body.

"Not one thing?" Alfred echoed quietly, frowning. "Not even me?" Arthur stopped in his tracks.

"Oh, come on, don't be like that. You big baby." Arthur replied, his voice wavering the tiniest bit. He stopped trying to pass Alfred, and instead stood in front of him as people passed to board. "You know this place isn't home for me, it won't ever be. You can't be mad at me for being homesick."

"You're my home." Alfred blurted out, shoulders slacking slightly as he frowned. "You're who I feel comfortable around, who I want to be around all the time. _You're_ my home, I'll be homesick if you leave." It was Arthur's turn to look mildly horrified and simultaneously complexed. He bit down on his lower lip. "I guess the feeling isn't reciprocated, huh?" The further his sentence went, the quieter Alfred's voice got, until the last few words were barely whispered. The American gave a stiff, short laugh, his eyes falling to the floor immediately. He took a small step to the side, allowing the Englishman to continue on to his gate. Arthur stood frozen on the old, torn up carpet.

"Bloody hell, Alfred…" The Englishman looked out the window juxtapose him, the palm of his hand pressing into his eye to stem any possible sign of weakness. "You weren't supposed to feel like that. I didn't want you to feel like that about me."

"So you thought just fucking around for four years was the obvious answer?" Alfred retorted, somewhat sarcastically. _'He planned on leaving all along.'_

Arthur only offered up a shrug, crossing his arms across his chest. His eyes remained trained on the window. "I'm sorry." He finally whispered, immediately returning to biting down on his lower lip.

It was Alfred's turn to shrug, staring at the floor as if it had just killed one of his closest friends. His hand reached up to remove his glasses briefly, using his thumb to scrape away at the tears before they had a chance to fall. He was furious, hurt, and in love, all at the same time; and he had no idea how to express that. The intercom flickered to life, and a high-pitched voice proclaimed _"Last call for the flight to Gloucestershire! Last call for the flight to Gloucestershire! Takeoff in five minutes!"_

Arthur looked to Alfred, then to the gate, and back to Alfred. He shifted his weight on his feet, leaning towards one, and then the other. The American didn't look to be ready to say much else. Arthur took one step towards the plane, then another, as if he were testing the ground for land mines. One more step, then another, and another. Arthur had to look over his shoulder to see the American, who hadn't budged from his spot on the carpet. He slowly began to walk towards the gate, not sparing another glance back. It was only when he was close to boarding did he feel a hand grab his own, and spin him around. Alfred kissed him suddenly, perhaps a bit more violently than necessary. He wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist, pulled him close against him, and kissed him for all he was worth. The Englishman made a sound of surprise (but not disappointment) in the back of his throat, hesitantly returning the motion. It was only when they were both lost for breath that Alfred pulled back, just far enough to lean his forehead against Arthur's.

"Please don't leave." Alfred begged quietly, keeping his eyes sealed shut tightly. He could feel Arthur's body tense, and his breath hitch.

"Okay."

* * *

Alfred's house was dead silent when they arrived. There were no cars in the garage, and the little bowl that usually held everyone's wallets and keys was vacant. The plants that the American usually kept alive were drooping, the ends of their leaves browning slightly. Had they not been so eager to get each others clothes off, Alfred probably would have stopped to water them. But no, they were up in the teenager's room with the door locked and the lights off. The four hour drive home from New York had been silent for a few hours, until Arthur cracked some shitty pun. And after delivering a light punch to the Englishman's arm for such a monstrosity, they laughed. Laughed away all of the negative feelings between them, washed them right away. Things immediately shifted back to the way things were before, to Alfred's disappointment. Here we go again, he thought somberly, more emotionless Arthur.

The sex didn't feel emotionless. The Brit's lips were all over Alfred's skin, covering him with affection and hickies (mainly hickies). The American's hands ran up Arthur's back, then clawed down, leaving bright red scratch marks racing along his pale skin. Their clothes were scattered all over the room, and the floor was covered with the usual condom packets.

"Oh my _god_ , Alfred." Arthur's toes curled and he parted his legs further, wrapping them around the American's waist to urge him to speed up. While one hand was furled up in the sheets, holding on for dear life, the other was attached to the American's shoulder, leaving light nail marks like crescent moons, one after the other. The honey-blond moaned, bowing his head down to press his lips on the shorter's neck, practically able to hear the mewl of pleasure upon kissing the soft spot. "Shit, shit, _bloody hell._ " Arthur whined, his voice cracking lightly.

 _"I love you."_ The words were on the tip of Alfred's tongue, yet he held them in, in favor of moaning the others name. Arthur took it just as well, whimpering in pleasure as they both came. Sleeping with other people was fun, but sleeping with the Englishman was orgastic. He made every square inch of Alfred's skin singe; burn with a pleasure so great that it almost hurt. He collapsed onto the bed next to the green-eyed teen, his chest rising and falling rapidly. They looked each other in the eyes as they gasped for air, and Arthur reached out to hold onto one of the American's hands. Both their bodies were marked and scratched, resembling a failed test a teacher had marked all over in red ink. Alfred licked his lips whilst his legs locked together with Arthur's.

"… Wanna go get dinner tomorrow night..? With me?" Asked the taller of the two. Arthur smiled.

"I'd love to."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Did anyone understand the weird metaphorical statement I attached with the titles of the chapters? Each chapter title showed how much Alfred understood Arthur and his motives/reasons for what he did. Kind of lame, but \\(-_-)/ sue me.

I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it! Sorry the smut wasn't as detailed/long as I thought, I haven't written in forever and my fingers were not too keen on writing the nasty stuff we all pretend we don't love. Thanks for reading folks!


	4. Epilogue

**Author's Note:** This (very short) chapter is here because I'm a sap for happy endings.

* * *

Chapter 4

 _A Short and Pleasing Epilogue_

\- Five Years Later -

 _We are truly pleased to announce the wedding of Alfred Fitzgerald Jones, and Arthur James Kirkland, this June 24th. They will be wed at the town's central church in Winchcombe, Gloucestershire at midday. Family and friends invited._

 _"We are each others' home." -Arthur K_ _._


End file.
